Vision
by Princess MacEaver
Summary: It's two months after the strike. A new boy shows up at the Manhattan Lodging House and suddenly, Jack's world is falling apart. When it seems like no one is on your side, how do you find your place?
1. Default Chapter

Vision

By Princess MacEaver

Disclaimer: Disney owns anything in this fic worth owning.  Moshe's mine—I know you want him.

Thanks go out to Kora, Poet, and even Moneybags and Scribbles.  : )  Sorry if I forgot anyone!

In the summer of 1899, Jack Kelly led a newsies' strike against the newspaper moguls Joseph Pultizer and William Randolph Hearst.  The newspaper owners had raised the cost of the newspapers for the newsies from fifty cents per hundred papers to sixty cents per hundred.  In the face of scabs, corruption, and police brutality, the newsies were successful in getting their rights restored.  This is for those of you who wondered, "and then what happened…?"

It was September 1899, not two months after the strike was over.  The newsies had long since returned to their regular schedules and the strike was only a memory, though not a distant one.  Jack Kelly, known as Cowboy to the newsies, was still lauded and recognized for his efforts in the strike, as was his friend and partner in leading the strike, David Jacobs.

David, however, had returned to school just weeks before to start the fall semester.  He remained friends with the newsies, but saw them only after working hours, and on nights he didn't have to study.  He had dreams of going to college and getting a law degree, working as a lawyer instead of in the factories.  His younger brother, Les, also attended school, at least on days he could be found and forced to go.  When he didn't show up for school, everyone knew to look for him at the newsies' usual selling spots, where he would hang out with his friend Boots and sell papers again.

Other than Davey and Les returning to school, however, life for the Manhattan newsies remained largely unchanged, until one day in September when a new boy arrived at the lodging house during a late summer rainstorm.

In the storm of the afternoon, the newsies had sought shelter in popular indoor hangouts such as Irving Hall theater or Tibby's, their favorite café.  At four o'clock in the afternoon, the lodging house was deserted save for Kloppman, the elderly proprietor.

At the sound of the door opening, Kloppman shook out the pages of his newspaper and didn't glance up.  "Don't drip on the floor," was all he said, his bespectacled eyes scanning a story about a scandal at the races.

The boy in the doorway looked to be about sixteen, muscular but slender.  He wore a blue shirt soaked against his skin, dark trousers, and white suspenders.  Beneath the brim of his gray tweed cap, black hair clung to his forehead in thick wet strands, trickling water down between his straight black brows.  His skin was dark, and his ethnicity was unclear—likely Jewish, or possibly Italian. He took four long, slow strides to Kloppman's desk, his black boots leaving watery prints in spite of Kloppman's admonition, and set down his sack.

The landlord only looked up at the sound of coins clinking on the counter.  He lowered the paper and looked the boy over.  "Moving in?  Just a minute."  He folded his paper noisily, bent below the counter, and reemerged with a thin gray ledger book.  "Just sign yer name there," he said, tapping a blank line on a yellowed page.

The boy took the offered pen and his eyes flicked up briefly to meet Kloppman's.  The gaze lasted only a fraction of a second, but the intensity of his dark eyes made Kloppman take an involuntary step back.  The new boy almost seemed to be sizing him up, judging him, in that quickest look.  But then he broke the gaze and printed his name in the register.

Kloppman took the book and turned it to read the name.  "Moshe Lipman, eh?" he said.  "You'll find that name won't stick long here."  He laughed humorlessly, shut the book, and nodded toward the stairs.  "The bunkroom's up that way.  There should be an empty or two."

"Thanks," the boy—Moshe—said, not cracking a smile, and took his bag and headed up the stairs.  

Kloppman squinted up at Moshe's back and then shivered ever so slightly, as if the room was colder for him being gone.  Then he shook off the feeling and took up his paper again.

An hour later, when the rain had ceased, Jack Kelly walked down the wet street, a thin stack of papers hanging from the rope slung over his shoulder.  He was taking a break from hawking the headlines and heading down to a pretzel stand at the corner of Bleeker and 31st.  As he passed, he heard a voice call his name.

"Jack!"

Jack turned to see Les Jacobs, David's younger brother, wooden sword in hand and Jack's oversized black cowboy hat cockeyed on his head.  Les rushed at his idol, whom he hadn't seen in over a week, and wrapped his arms around Jack's waist in an overwhelming hug.

"Whoa," Jack said, laughing, and pushed Les away so he could regain his balance.  "Les!  Hey you, ain'tcha supposed to be in school?"

"Holiday or somethin'," Les said innocently, pushing his hat up though it promptly fell forward again.

"Oh really?" Jack raised his eyebrows.  "Hey, pop quiz, Les.  What's four times five plus six?"

The hat slid farther down Les's brow as he started silently whispering numbers to himself.  Jack laughed to see his puzzlement, knocked him on the hat (effectively jamming it right over his eyes), threw him a penny candy, and continued down the street without listening for the answer.

"Tell your sistah hi for me," he called over his shoulder, hands in pockets.

"Oh yeah," Les said, shoving the hat up and running after Jack.  "I was supposed ta say…she wants ya to come by tomorrow night for dinner.  You'll come?"

"Shoah, kid," Jack agreed.  "I'll be dere."

Les ran off to mock swordfight and Jack continued down the street with his easy, casual gait.  He got in line at the pretzel stand and recognized the customer in line ahead of him as Specs, a friend of his and a fellow newsie.

         The boys greeted each other and Jack noticed Specs had no more papers.  "What's up, Specs, you sold 'em all already?"

         Specs got his change and his snack from the vendor and smiled.  "My luck to be caught in da rain just outside da matinee opera.  All da rich folks bought some to covah deir heads with to run to da cabs.  I was out in ten minutes flat and coulda sold anudda sixty, at least, if I'd had 'em."

         "Dat many?" Jack asked, then, to the vendor, "Just one, thanks."

Specs waited as Jack got his pretzel then the two headed down the street together.  "Yeah, think I'm gonna see if my goil's free t'night, maybe catch a show.  How 'bout you?"

"Well I still got dese papes to go t'rough," Jack said, "but aftah, I don't have any plans."

Specs pointed out Jack's papers and laughed, "Hey, ain't losin' your touch, are ya, Cowboy?"

"What's dat supposed ta mean?" Jack asked, halting, but Specs continued, shrugging.

"Ah, nothin'.  Catch ya later, Jack."

Jack glanced down at his papers and then back up at Specs' receding back.  Losing his touch?  

Jack strolled back into the lodging house just after his dinner.  Upstairs, he found the boys sitting around and playing cards in the bunkroom as usual, though a sizeable group was clustered around one table.  His friends called him over when they saw him and he approached the group.

"What's goin' on?" he asked sociably.

"Look Jack, we got a new kid," Crutchy piped up, pointing across the table.  A dark head turned around slowly and Jack met Moshe's eyes.  He felt something of the same feeling Kloppman had experienced when first he met the boy's gaze.

The new boy stood up.  "Moshe Lipman," he said, extending his hand.

"Jack Kelly.  Fellas call me Cowboy," Jack replied, shaking Moshe's hand and trying to figure out his first impression.  Though he seemed to radiate a heat that drew the others to him like beggars around a warm grate, there was something cold about the boy.  Something not quite friendly.  Jack couldn't have explained it as he tried.  Maybe it was the way he felt the other boy's dark eyes were studying him so intensely—intense, that was the word for it.  Moshe's grip was firm, and a dark ragged cloth was bound around his knuckles.

"You from around heah?" Jack asked, taking a seat someone quickly vacated for his use.

Moshe returned to his own chair and his long legs spread under the table.  "Not really," he replied, straightening the cloth around his hand and slouching back in his chair.  "Grew up in Queens but I've been livin' in Detroit these past five years.  Lost my job dere and thought I'd give sellin' papers a try."  His accent sounded something like the others', owing to his youth in New York, but was not quite as thick.

"Well it ain't too glamorous a living," Jack warned him.

Moshe's mouth twisted up in wry smile.  "I ain't used to glamorous anyway."

"Ain't dat da truth," someone said, and there was a murmur of agreement around the table.

"So you're new to dis newsie business?" Jack asked.

"I seen it done, but no, nevah sold."

"How's about I help ya get started tomorra?" Jack asked, standing up and starting to head toward the bathroom.  "Show ya da ropes, like."

"Sure," Moshe agreed.  "Appreciate dat."

As Jack washed his hands and face he could hear the newsies continue to talk behind him.

"Cowboy's kinda in charge around heah," Blink explained.

"I could tell," Moshe's voice replied, and Jack smiled into his washcloth.

"You hoid about our strike dis summer?" Boots asked.

"Didn't get much news of dat in Detroit.  What's it all about?"

Jack then entered a stall and missed most of the explanation.  When he returned to the table, the boys were just reaching the conclusion.

"So when Jack an' Davey came out, wit da whole crowd dere an' everything, dey announced dat we'd won it," Mush said excitedly, interrupting Race's version of the story.  "We'd gotten da papes back down to fifty cents a hundred an' ended da strike!"

There was a silence as all the boys looked to Moshe for his reaction.  When it came, it was chillingly understated.  "Dat's it?" was all he said.

Race and Blink looked at each other uncertainly and for once, had nothing to say.

After several moments of uncomfortable silence, Jack spoke.  "Whattya mean, 'dat's it'?  A course dat's it.  _We won_."

Moshe turned in his chair to face Jack, who was standing behind him.  "Well, I'm just not dat impressed, is all," he said, shrugging insolently.

This time, the boys exploded, disbelieving and insulted.  Jack automatically held up a hand for silence, and in front of him, Moshe made the same gesture.  The boys shut their mouths and looked to Jack.

Jack set his hands on the table and leaned in close to Moshe, covering his anger with a smooth contemptuous expression.

"Just what would you have done, Lipman?" he asked softly.

Moshe wasn't fazed at all.  "Just taken it as far as it could go, Cowboy.  Dat's all."  He turned his eyes away from Jack and looked out at the assembled boys.

"I mean, isn't it obvious?" he asked them.  "You had da power, didn't you?  Why not ask for more when you could?"

Jack threw up his hands in disgust and stepped back from the table, but the other boys looked at Moshe with interest.

"Like what, Moshe?" Mush asked tentatively.

"Yeah, like what?" Itey echoed.

Moshe shrugged and stood, making some vague reply, but turned to find himself nose-to-nose with Jack.  "Like what, Moshe?" Jack asked, each word soft as a whisper but edged in malice.

Moshe smirked and Jack saw something like amusement in his eyes.  "Doesn't matter, Jack," he said.  "Anything.  When you had the power, you coulda got anything."  He started to walk away and then turned deliberately to add, "Like, forty cents a hundred."  Then, without a word of excuse, he brushed against Jack and left for the bathroom.

Jack stood a moment in shock, then turned to the newsies.  "Would ya get a load of—" he started, and cut off, seeing the newsies conferring intently among themselves.

The phrase 'forty cents a hundred' was traveling through them like an electrical impulse, issuing in a whisper each pair of lips.  Jack could not believe what he was hearing.

"Are you really listening to dat?" he asked, his voice jumping out louder than he had intended.  Every mouth shut with a snap and all eyes focused on him.  "He's full of it!" Jack insisted, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

A few boys dropped their eyes, or looked to one other.  Jack just stared silently and then stalked away to finish getting ready for bed.

The next morning as he shouldered his papers, he felt a sudden wave of loneliness and strongly wished David hadn't had to return to school.  At the same time, he envied his friend, for the opportunities his education would provide him.  Jack's education had been inconsistent and incomplete, and as his eighteenth year fast approached, he wondered just what sort of employment he would be able to secure once his newsie days were done.  That was the sort of thing to talk to Dave about, he knew, and planned to bring it up after dinner that night.

That, and this new unrest among the boys.  Last night, muffled conversations had carried on long past lights out, and that morning boys in the washroom fell silent when he entered.  He'd heard enough, though, to know what they were talking about:  that ridiculous idea the new boy had planted in their heads the night before.  Forty cents a hundred!  Papers had been selling two for a penny ever since he'd started working as a newsie eight years before.  It was like tradition.  Not to mention that the math involved in switching prices made his head hurt.  Who did that Lipman fellow think he was, getting everyone stirred up over it?

Jack turned with a start, feeling a tap on his shoulder.  It was Moshe, the instigator himself, carrying his own stack of papers and looking at Jack with that cocky half-smile fixed firmly on his face.

"Whattaya want?"

"Well, you did say you'd help me out sellin' today," Moshe replied, his smile unchanging.  "Show me da ropes an' all that."

"Oh yeah," Jack said grudgingly.

"Unless you've changed your mind—" Moshe spoke up quickly, pointing like he was preparing to go.

Jack shook his head immediately, remembering that he was, after all, the Manhattan leader, and had to at least pretend like he liked all the newsies.  And he _had_ offered.  "Oh, no, no problem," he said.  "Come along wit me."

And he started his usual speech about headlines and selling spots, the same introduction he'd given every new newsie for years.  As he rattled off the spiel, he remembered back to when he'd succeeded Matches Monroe as the unofficial leader of the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House and surrounding territory.  He wondered where Matches had ended up; he hadn't heard from him after his departure those two years before.  Matches had been a good leader, if somewhat irresponsible and a little too fond of fire for comfort.  But every good leader had to leave sometime.

And who would take Jack's place when he was gone?  He'd always kind of seen Racetrack as his right-hand man, but it was unlikely Race would ever be a leader.  He was more of the sidekick type.  And he was probably in fact older than Jack, though he had never said.  Then who else?  Neither Mush nor Blink had the ambition, and the ones Jack considered more serious, Skittery or Specs for example, lacked the popular appeal.  Boots had the potential to be a good leader in his time; Jack liked his initiative, his maturity, and his loyalty, among other qualities.  But Boots was still young, younger than any other leader around.  The older boys wouldn't like to answer to someone whose voice hadn't even changed.

And Moshe.  Jack looked at the boy walking beside him.  He had charisma, that was for sure.  And ambition.  The boys liked him already.  He seemed to fit every requirement, but the idea repelled Jack.  The question was, did he have character?

"Okay, I get it, I get it," Moshe interrupted, and Jack realized he'd still been reciting the speech.  It was very unlike him to get preoccupied and forget where he was like that.

"Right," Jack said, straightening his collar.  "Well heah's da boxing ring," he said, and pointed.  "Da crowd heah's easy.  Why don'tcha give it a shot."

Moshe tugged his cap and set off for the crowd, but suddenly Jack called him back.

"What?"

Jack pulled at his bandana and leaned one arm against the brick wall. "Actually, I wanted ta tawlk just a minute."

Moshe cast a glance toward the crowd behind him, then turned back to face Jack.  "Okay, shoot," he said, holding his papers against his chest.

Jack decided to get right to the point.  "Just what were you aiming at, getting' all da fellas woiked up last night?"

Moshe's expression didn't change for a moment, then he asked, "What, you mean dat strike stuff?"

"Yeah, 'dat strike stuff'," Jack said.  "Dis business wit forty cents a hundred an' all dat.  Look, you'se a smart guy.  You know you don't need to be puttin' no ideas in deir heads."

"Well why not?" Moshe interrupted.

"What?"

"Why not?  It's a good idea."

"It's a—a good idea?"  Jack flung his arm down, exasperated.  "I understand dat you're new here an' all, but dat's just not smaht.  We don't _need_ ta strike again.  We got what we wanted.  Maybe we was lucky da foist time, an' we don't need ta press our luck.  Fifty cents a hundred, dat was fair.  Forty cents, dat's just—dat's just greedy."

Moshe's smirk crept back onto his face. He didn't say a word.

Jack adjusted his bandanna and stepped closer.  "So do ya heah me, Moshe?"

Moshe regarded Jack silently, his smile widening slightly.  "You know what your problem is, Jack?" he finally said.  "You don't got vision."  He tapped right beside his eye with two fingers.  "You don't got vision."

Then the new boy turned and blended into the crowd, leaving the Manhattan leader speechless and stunned by the wall.

"Somebody get the door!"

"I'll get it, Mama," Jack heard a sweet female voice say.  He quickly brushed off his jacket sleeves and smoothed back his hair.

The door opened and Sarah stood in the doorway in a brown skirt and white blouse, her hair loose and shiny past her shoulders.  "Hi," she said softly, holding the doorknob, and brushed her hair behind her ear.

"Hi," Jack whispered back, and suddenly stepped in and kissed her.  She giggled and pulled the door open wide, her cheeks flushing pink.

"Good evening, Jack," she said in loud, false tones.  "Please come in."

Jack grinned at her and entered the Jacobs' small apartment, letting Sarah take his jacket and hang it by the door.  Esther Jacobs, Sarah's mother, left her place at the stove to come greet their dinner guest.

"It's good to see you, Jack," she said.  "Why don't you go tell the boys you're here?  They're up on the roof."

Sarah stayed behind to serve up dinner as Jack exited via the window and started up the fire escape.  On the roof, Les was sword-fighting with stockings as David sat, head bowed over a book.

"Whatcha readin' dere, Davey?" Jack asked, coming up behind him.  David jumped and dropped his book, then knocked over the flowerpot next to him as he fumbled to catch it. 

"_A Tale of Two Cities_," Davey replied, passing Jack the book as he knelt to right the flowerpot.  "Dickens."  He scooped the spilt dirt back into the pot and brushed off his hands.  Jack rifled the pages of the book and made a face.

"It's long," he stated.

David took the book back.  "Yeah, books without pictures are like that."

Jack was about to protest the insult when he realized his usually serious friend was joking.  Instead, he socked David's shoulder and said, "Well, let's eat.  Les, ovah heah!"

The three boys arrived back in the kitchen just as Sarah and Esther were setting the plates on the table.  "Somebody get your father," Esther said, and Les volunteered.  

As he scampered out of the room, David smiled at Jack and explained, "Papa just got home from work.  You know he's in a union now?"

"Yeah?"  Jack was reminded that he wanted to discuss the new strike idea with David when he got a moment.  He knew his former fellow strike leader would agree that Moshe's behavior was outrageous.

He got his chance after dinner, as the women did the dishes and Mayer tucked Les in.  Jack and David leaned against the rail of the fire escape talking, like they had the first day they'd met, earlier that summer, before either of them had even considered the idea of the newsies strike.

"So, what'd you want to talk about?" David asked after a few minutes of idle conversation.

Jack looked out at the rooftops beyond and then at his friend. "Well, dere's dis new kid…" he began, and relayed the events of the last two days.  "So," he concluded, "all it is, is dat I'm afraid dis idea'll really take hold, an' da fellas are gonna try striking again."

"Really?" David asked.  "Is that really all you're afraid of?"

Jack just looked at him.  "Well, what else would it be?" he finally asked.

David looked out into the night.  "It just sounds to me like maybe there's another issue behind all this.  I understand what you mean about the strike, but I think at the same time you're afraid this Moshe is some kind of replacement for you.  If the other guys are listening to him and not you, well…"

Jack glared out at the street below, his fingers twisting around the metal of the stair rail.  "Well dat's what everyone t'inks," he said.  "I tried tawlkin' ta Race an' Mush, and dey both just said I must be jealous of 'im.  Well maybe I am, a'right?  Maybe I am thinking he's gonna take my place, an' I don't want him to.  I ain't about ta deny it.  But dat has nothin' to do with whetha or not I support dis stupid strike!"

"That's what I thought," David said.

"Well, what am I supposed ta do, Davey?" Jack asked him, looking over.  "How'm I supposed ta stop dis b'fore it gets started?  Couldn't you come tawlk ta dem with me?  Dey always listened to you."

"No, Jack, they always listened to you," Davey corrected him gently.  "And I was the one who knew what was smart, and what wasn't.  But now I think you have that part figured out for yourself.  You don't need me for this."

Jack frowned, not liking what he heard.  "So you're too busy with school, is dat it?" he asked.

"I could make the time, Jack.  That's not it.  I just want to see you handle this one on your own."  His teeth shown white in the darkness as he cracked a smile.  "Hey, and if it doesn't work out, there's always Santa Fe, right?"  He clapped Jack on the shoulder then started toward the window.  "Come on, let's go inside.  It's getting cold out here."

"Santa Fe," Jack grumbled to himself, lingering on the stairs.  Well, maybe there was once a time when he would have packed up and left at the suggestion of it, but not anymore.  He took one last look out into the dark and followed David through the window.

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	2. Chapter Two

Jack rubbed his neck as he walked through the Lodging House door.  He'd sold alone again that day, and it had seemed like forever before he ran out of papers.  His neck ached—he must have slept badly the previous night—and he continually felt the dull pain of a headache.  On top of that, his stomach was beginning to hurt.  He thought perhaps something he had eaten at the Jacobs' had disagreed with him, but more likely it was just what David had said.  Jack's plans for the rest of the evening were nothing more ambitious than a long nap, comfortable in his own bunk.

As he crossed through the **l**obby, he heard voices and caught sight of Moshe chatting with a young lady.  He looked away and didn't acknowledge Moshe at all.  The two hadn't spoken since Moshe had gone off to sell on his own, setting the stage for some tense moments in the lodging house.  But as Jack set foot on the steps, he heard a peal of laughter—Moshe's—that was joined by a familiar female giggle.  Then:

"Jack!"

He turned and saw the girl was Sarah.  Sarah, talking so familiarly with the boy he had come to consider his archrival.  Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted in the sort of smile he liked to think only he could bring to her face.  Jack's girlfriend seemed oblivious to the freezing of his features, and stepped up to him.

"Jack, how are you?" she asked cheerily.  "You forgot this last night, and I asked Mama to let me bring it by."  She thrust something into his hands, and he looked down to see that she had brought him a pie plate, with almost half an apple pie.  Esther Jacobs never let Jack leave without sending him 'a little something to share with the boys'.

"_And_ you forgot to kiss me goodbye," Sarah added coyly, stepping closer.

Jack ignored her request and cut his eyes toward Moshe, who was just making a timely exit out the front door.

"What were ya talkin' ta him for?"

Sarah frowned and said, "What do you mean, Jack?  I was just being friendly."  She cast a look in Moshe's direction and let out a squeak when Jack caught her arm.  "Jack!"

"Sorry," he said immediately, and loosened his hold on her arm.  He dropped his voice again.  "Sarah, I don't want ya talkin' ta dis one, a'right?"  
            "Why not?"

"Just don't, a'right?  Now t'anks for da pie, but shouldn't you get home b'fore it's dark?"  He kissed her cheek distractedly and tried to guide her in the direction of the door.

She dragged her feet, resisting.  "Jack?  Is he the one you think is taking over?"

Jack stopped where he stood.  "Who told you dat?"

"Well, David may have mentioned it…" she said.

"Well don't you listen to dat!" Jack said, and she jumped visibly.  "Dat ain't happening, you understand?"

"Yes, Jack," she replied quickly.  Then, apparently trying to smooth things over, she patted his cheek and said, "I'd just like to still be able to brag that I'm seeing the most powerful newsie in all of Manhattan."  She kissed him, and left.

_The most powerful newsie in all of Manhattan_, Jack heard in his head, and permitted himself a small, weary smile.  But that smile would have disappeared if he could have known that just steps outside the door, Moshe waited to offer his girl a walk home, and have his offer accepted.

Jack slept restlessly and could barely drag himself out of bed the next morning.  His stomachache had returned, and now he felt disoriented, distracted.  He just wanted to curl up in bed and sleep the fever away, but he couldn't do that now, he knew.  It would only make it too easy for Moshe to wrestle all that he loved away from him.  What he didn't know was that Moshe's plan was already going into effect.

In his condition, he didn't notice a thing.  Not the whispers or the unsure looks or Moshe's cool confidence or anything that would ordinarily have tipped him off.  Then, just at they headed toward the circulation desk, Boots approached him and came out with it.

"Hey Jack…  I dunno if you hoid about it or what, but we ain't sellin' today."

"What?"

Boots avoided Jack's eyes and twisted a loose button on his cuff.  "I mean, y'know, we'se startin' da strike t'day.  For forty cents a hundred."

_Forty cents a hundred_.  Had it only been three days ago that he had first heard that phrase that had apparently taken root in the brain of each newsie?  He licked his lips and fought another wave of nausea.  "Yeah, shoah," he said at last.  "I hoid of dat."

"So're you sellin'?" Boots asked, and Jack wondered if he just imagined the trace of hope in the voice.  Hope for what answer, he couldn't have said.

Jack glanced toward the window, where the new man, Danner, was just opening the shutters.  When he looked back toward Boots, he suddenly saw all the other newsies clustered behind him, just as they had encircled the would-be scabbers months earlier.  There was Moshe, right in the center, his eyes glinting in the morning light.  When Jack hesitated only a moment, Moshe stepped forward and out of the crowd.

"Yeah, Jack.  You sellin'?"  His words, Jack knew, were a direct challenge to his authority.  If Jack said no, he was only submitting to Moshe's idea.  If he said yes…  He took a step backward.  Then another.  And then he turned and walked directly toward the window.

Behind him, a swell of hushed voices rose from the newsies' group.  "Don't you do it, Jack!" he heard Mush plead, voice breaking.

"It ain't worth it!"

"What are ya, a scabbah?"  That was Racetrack.  Jack flinched.

"Don't you give up on us!"  Blink's voice.  _No_, Jack thought, _you're the ones who gave up on me._  

Just like he did every morning of his life, Jack reached into his pocket and drew out a fifty-cent piece, feeling for the first time each ridge and contour of the coin's face between his fingers.  His hands suddenly seemed so sensitive, almost as if they were feeling the individual fibers in the material of his trousers, each grain of dust settled in his pocket.  At the same time, his ears heard nothing of the admonitions of his so-called friends.  Then there was the click of the coin on the wood of the counter, and the spell was broken.  The voices had risen in volume, and the sound of the shouts assaulted his ears, making him cringe involuntarily.  They said he had betrayed them, they said he was a scab.  He'd heard these words before, and maybe he deserved them then, but he didn't deserve them now.  His mouth tried to form the words, "A hundred papes," but he couldn't work his lips.  He felt hot and clumsy and the world began to blur around him.  In a moment, the shouts fell silent as Jack collapsed to the ground.

When Jack awoke, he was lying on the bunk below his usual bed.  Someone had removed his shoes and dropped them by the bed, and a glass of water sat on his beside table, but his mysterious helper was nowhere to be seen.  Jack made himself sit upright and took a shaky sip of water.  Now what?  He was surely too late.  The strike had begun, and the boys he had once considered his were biting off more than they could chew.  Well, it was their problem now.  His collapse had been his fall from grace, effectively removing him forever from his rank as leader.  His stomach churned again as the thought crossed his mind, and he stumbled from the bed to throw up.

As he sat in a cold sweat with his head hung over the toilet bowl and the taste of vomit in his mouth and nose, he realized not one person was there with him, and slumped back against the stall partition in defeat.  Who had laid him out on the bed, he wondered.  They might as well have dumped him by the curb with yesterday's garbage, because that was what he was.  He stumbled to his feet, washed his face and rinsed his mouth, and fell back onto his bed.  He didn't know how long he lay there, feeling nothing but a numb despair, until his hand dropped off the side of the bed and his knuckles brushed the floor.  No, brushed something on the floor.

He rolled over and picked up the object he had touched.  There, his money pouch.  Why was it on the floor?  He opened it and looked at the bills inside, still crisply folded just as they had been when Pulitzer first handed them over.  That was when Jack really had betrayed his friends, accepting Pulitzer's bribe—this money, and freedom—in exchange for working as a scab.  The money was going to be for his long-awaited move to Santa Fe.  And in the end, he had returned to his friends and supported them and given up his dreams of Santa Fe.  Well, there wasn't much holding him in New York anymore, was there?  He ran a finger along the side of one bill, and the edge sliced his finger.  He lay without moving and watched the cut turn red.  A small dark bead of blood slid around his finger and hung poised above the dollar in his other hand.  Jack watched without blinking as it rolled off his trembling hand and darkened the bill in a single uneven drop.  He shut his eyes, his vision blurring.

Time at last to go to Santa Fe.

_Plink._

The rock bounced off the window and clattered on the fire escape.  Jack bent, keeping his eyes on the window he knew to be Sarah's, and picked up another stone.

_Plink._

At last, a glow appeared in the dark of the room.  Jack quickly climbed the stairs and arrived just as the window slid open.

"Who's there?"

"It's me," Jack whispered.  Sarah pushed the curtain aside.

"Jack!  What are you doing here?"

"Shh, keep it down, wouldja?" Jack said quickly.  "Come on up ta da roof."

Sarah met him on the roof shortly, wrapping herself in a thick lace shawl for warmth and modesty.

"Jack, it's two o'clock in the morning," she said, drawing the shawl close around her.

"I had ta tawlk to ya, Sarah.  It's important."  Important.  That was surely an understatement.  But he didn't know how else to say it.  He'd made a decision, sure to be the most significant he had ever made, and it was time for Sarah to make one too.  "It's important," he repeated, stuck on that word that didn't seem to do the occasion justice.

"Well, Jack," she said, "I have something important to discuss with you, too."

Jack paused, his thoughts interrupted.  He'd had it all planned out in his mind, and now she'd thrown him off.  "Why?  What about?"

Sarah focused on her fingers tugging at a loose thread in the shawl.  "Umm…Well, Jack, I've been meaning to tell you.  I've been thinking and, um, I don't think we should see each other anymore."  She pulled the thread as far as it would go and snapped it off with a quick jerk.

Jack looked at her in dumb shock.  After a silence, he sputtered, "But why?"

Sarah held up her fingers so the wind could lift the thread from her fingers.  She watched it coast to the ground and then looked up at him with blank eyes.  "I don't know."

An angry heat flushed Jack's face as he saw her vague, emotionless reaction.  "Is it someone else?" he demanded.

"Well, no Jack, of course not.  Not exactly…"  Seeing him start to question this, she hastily added, "I mean, I guess yes, but I don't know yet."  The pitch of her voice crept up like a frightened child's.  "Stop—stop interrogating me!"

"I came heah t'night ta ask you to go ta Santa Fe wit me," Jack whispered, his voice aching with disgust.  "I was gonna ask you to _marry_ me, Sarah."

"Oh, Jack," she said, sounding pitying, and looking right at him with those blank eyes, those emotionless eyes.  Those damned cow eyes! The sounds of her words seemed to reach his ears seconds behind the movement of her lips.  "I never could have married you.  Don't you know that?  I mean… Jack, you're not even Jewish."

Jack stared at her.  Then a terrible realization came to him, and though his blood was fairly boiling, his face looked as cool and hard as stone.  "It's Lipman, isn't it," he said, his voice terrifying in its quiet hatred.  "I should have known.  It's Moshe Lipman."  Her ashamed silence answered his question.  "Dammit!" he suddenly shouted, knocking a flowerpot to the ground in his rage.  "Dammit, why Lipman!"

Sarah drew away from the shattered flowerpot.  "He's capable," she said meekly, wrapping herself deep in her shawl.  "He's…he's popular, independent…"  Her voice rose as she started to speak again, possibly with some absurd notion that she could somehow make Jack understand, or agree.  "He has ideas…  He's starting things.  He's powerful.  Jack…"

_All the things I used to be_, Jack thought with absolute clarity.  Oh God, that he was going to _marry_ this girl.  Better that he had heard these words from her, and never longed for what he had left behind.

There came a noise from below, a window sliding open, and Jack saw a light cast against the wall of the building nextdoor.  "What's going on?" said Mr. Jacobs' voice.  "Is anybody up there?"

"It's that cat again, Mayer," answered his wife's voice.  "Come back to sleep."

Sarah stood completely still until the light disappeared and the window slid shut.  Then, eyes brimming with tears, she turned back toward Jack, only to find she was alone.

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	3. Chapter Three

For the first time in his life, Mush woke before Kloppman came to rouse them from their beds.  He sat up immediately and fastened his eyes on Jack's bed.  Still empty.

"No use, Mush," Racetrack said from behind him, making him jump.  "He didn't come back."

"I wasn't lookin' for 'im," Mush lied, feeling traitorous.  "Why would I look for _'im_?"

"We all looked," Blink said, appearing behind Race.  "Nobody's seen 'im since yestaday."

Before Mush could comment, Kloppman entered the room.  He stumbled backwards in his surprise to see the boys awake and dressed, but made a quick recovery and began knocking on bunks, yelling his wake-up calls.

"C'mon," Race said.  "Get dressed fast an' we can go look for 'im some.  Maybe he's just, you know, around."

"Maybe he just t'inks we'd be mad," Blink added optimistically.  He paused, and added uncertainly, "We ain't mad no more, right?"

"Try tellin' dat ta Moshe," Race said, watching their new strike leader climb out of bed.  As soon as Swifty and Skittery had carried Jack back to the lodging house, Moshe had forbidden any mention of him.  The three watched Moshe with wary regard, then filed out of the lodging house, leaving the morning chaos behind.

They made a quick round of Jack's usual locations, and found that not a soul had seen him.  "It's no use, Race," Blink whined.  "He ain't nowhere, and Moshe'll kill us if we don't show up dis mornin'."

"Let's just t'ink about dis, Kid.  If you was Jack, where'd you be?"

"We been all dose places, Race," Mush said.  "It's no good tryin'.  Let's just get back to da circulation desk an' help da strike b'fore Moshe knows we been gone."

Racetrack had to agree this was a sensible idea, and the three headed back to join the other newsies.

Meanwhile, David was getting ready for school.  "David?" his mother called from the kitchen.

"I'm coming, Mama," he said, pulling on his vest and grabbing his books before hurrying into the kitchen.

His mother met him with a broom and dustpan.  "Before you go, clean up the mess on the roof.  That stray tom knocked over another flowerpot last night."  No one noticed Sarah breathe in sharply and suddenly become very absorbed in her needlepoint.

"Mama, I'm going to be late," David complained, setting his books down.

"You can't go until Les is done eating, anyway," Mrs. Jacobs pointed out, and Les nodded, concentrating on his oatmeal.  "Now hurry up and do it."

David sighed and hurried up to the roof, broom in hand.  Stupid cat, coming back to make messes for him to clean up.  He thought it had moved on, too.  He carefully picked up the broken slices of the pot and found himself staring at a footprint in the dirt.  He frowned and took a closer look.  Definitely a footprint, and a man's shoe at that.  On the other side of the dirt mound, it was swept flat, like cloth had brushed over it.  Or… a girl's skirt.  He hurriedly swept up the mess and ran back downstairs to confront his sister.

Sarah bumped into him right inside the window.  "What is it?" she said immediately, holding her needlepoint to her chest.

"You were up on the roof last night," he said.

"Um, yes, I couldn't sleep—" she started.

"With a man."  The color rose in Sarah's cheeks and he knew he was right.

"Don't be silly," she protested.

"I saw his footprints."

Sarah gave up on denying it.  "You don't have to protect me like you do Les," she said, moving away.  "I _am_ older than you."

"Who was it?"

"Who do you think?" she asked, flinging her needlepoint onto the bed.  "And you can't go after him, because he's gone.  He came to say goodbye and now he's gone."

"Who, Jack?" David asked dumbly.

"Yes, Jack!" Sarah snapped.

"David!  School!"

David frowned at his sister and hurried from the room, almost knocking Les over as he shoved open the door.  "Hurry up," he said, grabbing his brother's arm in one hand and his books in the other.

Once they were down the street and around the corner, David dropped Les's arm.  "You go on to school, Les," he ordered, starting down a side street.

"Where are you going?"

"Nevermind that.  Just go to school and don't tell Mama!"

Les watched his brother until David was completely out of sight.  _Going to find Jack,_ he thought, recalling the conversation he had listened in on so raptly.  Well, he'd be damned if he just turned around and went to school today.  Les tossed his homework in the nearest trashcan and headed in the opposite direction to do some detecting of his own.

"Stop the World!  No more papes!  Stop the World!  No more papes!" the newsboys chanted, surrounding the gates of the distribution center.  "No more papes!"  

Pulitzer grunted and let the drapes fall closed.

"This _will not_ stand, gentlemen," he said, leaning his hands on his desk.  "Get me the chief of police, Jonathan.  We have let them get away with too much in the past.  This time, we will show these newsboys _we _make the rules."

Jack stared straight above him and tried to remember where he was.  The station, Grand Central Station.  His bag was under his head and his ticket to Santa Fe was in his pocket.  He reached down to feel it, making sure it was really there.  He was closer to his dream than he ever had been, closer even than the time Governor Roosevelt had been taking him to the station in his carriage.  Now he actually had the ticket, stamped with the numbers that told him in two short hours he'd be on his way to Santa Fe.

The clock above the ticket counters told him he had time to go find some breakfast.  He picked up his bag, crushed in from being used as a pillow, and slung it over his shoulder.  Already he could smell something hot and sweet as he headed out through the station's tall brick arches.

David didn't know where to go first.  Would the other newsies help him, if he asked?  _Better to go by the station first_, he thought.  It was on the way, after all.  He pushed his way through the crowds that were beginning to fill the streets.  A cart wheel rolled right over his toes and as he jumped away, he knocked into a man with a bag on his shoulder.  "Sorry," he said quickly, and continued ahead toward the station's arches.

The station was swarming with people, but he didn't see Jack anywhere.  After ten minutes of hunting, he forced his way to the front of the ticket line and ignored the loud protests of the people behind him.

"Excuse me, did you have any trains leave for Santa Fe?"

The clerk eyed him.  "You're going to have to be a bit more specific than that, son," she said.

"Last night.  Or this morning.  Did you?"

The clerk gave him a tired look and checked her schedule.  "Last night at ten," she said.

"And did a boy about my height, brown-haired, with a red bandana, did he buy a ticket?"

"Move it along, already!" someone yelled from behind him.

"We ain't waitin' all day!"

"How should I know?" the clerk asked.  "I wasn't on duty last night.  Now buy a ticket or get out of line."

Davey stepped out of the line and continued looking around the station, somehow feeling that Jack wasn't yet gone.  He should go ask the other newsies, he thought, and find out when they'd seen him last.  Even if that Moshe Lipman had taken over as leader, the guys had to care about Jack's leaving.  They just had to.

Les had never been to the lodging house during the day, without the newsies there.  When he told Kloppman he had to get something from the bunkroom, the old man just waved him upstairs without protest.  He didn't know what he was looking for, but he had a feeling that he'd know it when he saw it.  Then he did.  Under Jack's bunk, the Western Jim comic.  He grabbed up the familiar booklet and the cowboy stared back at him from the saddle.  Of course, Les thought.  It should have been obvious.  David probably thought of it right away.  He crammed the booklet in his jacket pocket and ran back out into the street.

He wasted no time getting to the train station.  Five minutes could mean the difference between Jack leaving and Jack staying.  He held his jacket closed against the wind and ran faster.

Now full and content, Jack strolled back toward the station.  Twenty minutes to the train's departure.  They were already boarding, so he took his place in line.  It seemed to move so slowly, as luggage was loaded and passengers shown to their seats.  The wait didn't bother him.  All that mattered was that he was getting to Santa Fe at last.  Even as he took his seat in third class, he was waiting for it to seem real to him.  That he was leaving New York, and probably forever.

Davey heard the shouts of the strikers before he saw the crowd.  Rounding the corner, he entered the square and saw the group of newsies.  For a moment, it was like the first strike all over again, only at the front of the crowd stood Moshe, not Jack.  And as he observed the scene a few moments longer, he saw more differences.  The crowd was smaller, without the benefit of newsies from other territories.  And it felt so… different.  He didn't know how to explain it, but it was obvious on the strikers' faces, and in the sounds of their chanting.  And he didn't like it.

The drapes at the top of the World building parted again.  "That one," Pulitzer said, pointing through the open window.  "That one, there."  The policeman nodded and raised his gun.

"All aboard!" the purple-faced conductor yelled.  "All aboard for Santa Fe!" The train hissed and roared as the wheels started to turn.

"Wait!" the small brown-haired boy shouted.  "Wait for me!"  He huffed as he pumped his legs as fast as he could, keeping pace with the train.

"Come on, son," the conductor said, leaning out the door.  His hand caught the boy's arm and he helped swing him onto the train.

Les breathed hard as he caught the door handle to stabilize himself.  Here he was, on a train bound for Santa Fe, with no ticket and no money.  If Jack wasn't on this train, what would he do?  Come to think of it—if Jack _was _on this train, what would he do?

Moshe listened to the sound of the newsies' chants and smiled to himself.  This was music to his ears, the sweet sounds he had coaxed out of his instrument as surely as a violinist draws his bow across the strings.  Forty cents a hundred, fifty cents a hundred, it was all the same to him.  What mattered was having them listen to him, answer to him.  If the strike succeeded, all the better for securing his position.  If not, all was not lost.  After all, he had gotten Jack Kelly out of Manhattan.  He took a "Strike" sign from Swifty's hand and stood up on a crate to lead the chanting.  His smile widened and a glint of satisfaction appeared in his eyes.

Davey's eyes darted around the square as he tried to think whom to approach.  Then out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a figure on the World Building's balcony, and the glint of metal.

"He's got a gun!" he yelled, running into the crowd.  "Watch out, he's got a gun!"

The newsies fell silent and turned to stare at him uncomprehendingly.

Hot frustration surged through Davey's body.  What were they waiting for?  "He's got a gun!" he yelled again.  Finally his words seemed to sink in, and the crowd began to scatter in all directions, dropping signs and knocking each other over in their haste.

And then a single shot was fired.

Moshe fell.


	4. Chapter Four

The lodging house was full but silent as night stole into the city.  Newsies sat two or three to a bed, wanting to be near each other but not saying a word.  They'd looked everywhere, everywhere, until there was no place left to look.  Davey dropped his head in his hands.  _How could he go, without saying goodbye?_

The silence was broken by the sound of the door opening.  Every head whipped around to look, but it was just Sarah.  "I came to take Les home," she said, shrinking back a little as she wondered why everyone was staring.

"Les is home," David said wearily.

Sarah shook her head.  "No, he never came home from school.  What's going on?"

"Jack's gone," Blink told her, "and Moshe's dead."

"No!" Sarah whispered in shock, holding her hand to her mouth and going white.  Mush and Jake jumped up to help her sit down, as Davey was preoccupied puzzling over Les's disappearance.

Mush patted Sarah's shaking hand.  "Don't worry, Sarah," he said, trying to comfort her.  "He might come back."

            Sarah shook her head violently but did not try to correct him.  Then Davey was standing in front of her, asking if she was sure Les hadn't returned.  Why was he bothering her?  Why didn't he just go away?  She didn't want to think.  She didn't want to feel.  
            "No, I'm sure he's not home.  Davey, please.  How can you worry about Les at a time like this?!"

            Davey reached a sudden and terrible conclusion.  Les was trying to find Jack.  How far had his search taken him?  "Les is gone," he said.

            "Les is gone?" Sarah repeated stupidly.

            "Les is here," said a voice from the doorway.  Everyone turned again, and there stood Jack, Les in front of him.

            "Les!" Sarah said, standing, and Les ran from Jack to his sister's arms.  She grabbed him tight, then stood straight, her face falling as she met Jack's eyes.  Without a word, he looked away from her, casting his glance around the room to see the anxious faces of the assembled newsies.  They looked hesitant, unsure, he realized.  They were afraid he'd be angry with them.  For a moment, no one spoke as they waited for Jack's reaction.

            "I'm back, fellas," he finally said, spreading his arms wide.  In a moment, the room erupted with cheers and the newsboys raced toward their leader to slap his back and shake his hand and promise him they never doubted him, not really, not ever.  Unseen to all of them, Sarah led a protesting Les out of the room.

            "We really t'ought you'd gone for good dis time," Blink said, striving for a light-hearted tone of voice.

            "Guess I just can't stay away," Jack said, hitting Blink's shoulder.  "Guess dere's still some stuff heah worth doin'."

            "D'ya t'ink you'll evah really go ta Santa Fe?" Mush asked, receiving several sharp elbows in the side and whispers of, "Shaddup, Mush!"

            "I dunno…" Jack replied, wandering to the window and watching the light fade from the sky.  "Someone once tol' me, it's da same sun as heah.  Maybe dey were right."  He turned back to the newsies, who stared back at him with blank expressions.  "Ah, forget dis sappy stuff," Jack said, grinning and clapping Race on the back.  "Wheah's dinnah?  I'm starvin'."

            The Manhattan leader and his boys clattered down the stairs and out the door, squinting in the light of the setting sun.  Jack shielded his eyes, but then dropped his hand and gazed defiantly into its yellow glare.  It seemed to him he'd never seen it so big and bright.  But maybe, he thought, he'd just never really looked.


End file.
